


Debris

by Monkeysock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case, First Person Perspective, Flashback, M/M, Rescue, character injury, implied sexual relationship, life threatening situation, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9342626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeysock/pseuds/Monkeysock
Summary: Sherlock becomes trapped under a load of debris when a building collapses on top of him.  He waits for rescue.





	

There is smoke in the air and dust in my lungs.

I struggle to breathe.

The sound of clattering bricks and bending support beams overhead give me the urge to run. But I can’t run. I am pinned in place by a load of debris.

It was a blast, though not much of one. The roof was set to come down in a relatively small implosion. Old building like this one, it needed just a gentle prod in the right direction to get it to fall. There was no time to take cover. Now the building is in pieces and I am trapped.

This site had been popular with squatters. I was at three other squatter’s sites tonight. Little buildings, ancient and set for demolition to make way for a new development. I was looking for evidence of bodies being planted during the destruction of the building to make it appear that the victim had simply been caught up in the blast and the death was an accident. I needed to find the evidence before the buildings were destroyed in the morning.

I found a body, the one I had expected to find. But my suspect triggered the demolition early. I didn’t expect that. I should have known.

I don’t fail often. Or rather, I don’t admit to failing. I sometimes skirt the edge of leaving things unsolved, but never count those as failures, only experience towards the next case. Everything helps me get better. Everything is to make me stronger. 

I don’t feel stronger.

I cough. The dust is still affecting my breathing. I am thirsty. How long has it been? I think I was unconscious for some of it. My arm is stuck, my watch and phone are likely smashed so I can’t check. It is still nighttime. I don’t hear sirens though. This place isn’t so remote. Someone will be coming soon. I texted John before I left. He might be coming.

I’m trying to remember the last time we spoke. I didn’t see him before I left this evening. I spent the day thinking. He was still avoiding me.

 

I must be in shock, I don’t feel much pain, mostly aching from the pressure of the debris. It is uncomfortable and heavy on me. I try bending everything, wiggling parts of my body to see if it will come free or is still capable of movement. I can’t tell if everything is working. It is too much sensation all around me. I can’t tell if my legs are even still attached.

This makes me laugh for some reason. ’Spectacularly ignorant about own limbs’ is what comes to mind.

I cough again. I taste blood in my mouth now. 

I should have spoken to John. John would have stopped me from coming here, had he known. He can sense danger in a way I can’t explain. He would have known it was set to blow. I would have listened to him. I should have listened to him. But it is also why I avoid telling him things. Sometimes the game is best when facing the danger head-on and I want to see what happens next. He has the caution of a man with experience. 

I wish he would get here.

 

…

I’m tired.

No. I need to stay awake. I try to think about something. Anything to keep me awake.

I used to ride horses as a boy. I am quite good with a horse. We used to ride at a nearby stables. Mycroft and me. I favoured a pony called Dutchman. Mycroft always took out Falstaff. I remember the time we went out and Falstaff was spooked by some birds. Mycroft, probably sixteen at the time, was thrown and landed on the trail unconscious. I had to ride ahead alone to find some help. I found some trail riders not far ahead and had them help me. Mycroft was taken to hospital and required some stitches and bed rest for a heavy concussion. But as a child, seeing my brother lay there unconscious like that, it was the first time I had imagined death. How easy it is. I had been scared at the time, crying and afraid in my mother’s arms, but when all was settled it was fascinating. So meaningless and cruel. 

I’m not sure why I thought of that. 

The dust is settling.

I can move my head a bit. That is probably a good sign. To one side of the broken room I see the corpse. The one I had found before the collapse had been triggered. It lays at an awkward angle across some bricks and rubbish. Mid twenties, auburn hair, wearing contacts but normally wears glasses, probably wanted to be a chef. He reminds me of Mycroft in the horse riding accident. Not for looks or anything. Just as Mycroft had looked so close to death, this kid looks like he could get up and walk away, unscathed, were it not for the stab wound that killed him.

I should have saved him. Usually I consider the puzzle, the mystery, the case. It is the game. The pawns are just a part of it. But as I look at him, I see a waste. He shouldn’t have ended up here. I was jumping to the end. I calculated where he would hide the bodies of his victims. I should have found a way to stop the murders. It was just easier to wait for the next body to arrive. Easier to wait for a mistake. I wish I could apologize to him.

It is useless to wish. Nothing will change. 

I do good work. In the end, it helps. I solve crimes, punish the guilty. I do more than most. But this man is dead. Have I done enough? 

It doesn’t matter. I am still trapped here and he is still dead. 

I wonder if emergency services are even on their way. I had been to three other sites before this one. If they were following my text to John, it could be hours. This building was slated to come down in the morning. The area was cleared. Someone must have questioned it, though. 

I try to shout, but I just cough again. Breathing is more difficult than it was earlier. 

I can turn my head the other way a bit to see through the crumbled ceiling to the night sky. There are stars visible from where I am. I have learned a bit about stars since the gallery. Their movements in the night sky are actually fascinating. I can almost understand why one would study astronomy. It appeals to the chemist in me, where I would use my microscope to study the minute, a telescope would study the massive. 

I must be in bad shape. Getting sentimental about the stars. They are beautiful, even from here, though. Serenity amongst the confusion of the catastrophe around me.

 

I am feeling light headed, now. My chest throbs. 

I wait some more.

My mind is slowing down with my body. I am having a hard time focusing. The aches are getting sharper and I am feeling cold. I’m able to move my head, but breathing is getting worse.

It is hard not to feel dire in my circumstance. I know I ruined things. I know I made a mess of everything. I wish I could go back and fix it. I try to think of the things I will change if I make it out of here, but there is a simple truth that is tingling in the back of my mind that I must acknowledge.

I’m probably going to die.

I think about John again. It is hard not to keep thinking about him. I expect I would have done things differently with him as well, if I had the opportunity to try again. I have a lot of remorse with the way things ended up. I am not good with things like this. I never had much in the way of friends growing up. It was easier not to. When it came to making friends in adulthood, I again chose the easier path and didn’t bother. 

John is different. I don’t even know why I chose him. It was as if he walked into my life with a limp and an arrow above his head with the lettering This Man Will Change Your Life! painted on it. He complements me perfectly.

Everything else happened quite naturally. We evolved into having a life together. It started with casual touches, then incidental kisses. It was never something we discussed, nor was it something that was distracting. Comfort, not romance. 

Then there was the Uxbridge case. Just last week we ran up the stairs into the flat, adrenaline still surging and something else took over. The kiss was needy and wanton. I was against the wall, he was pressing against me. I knew what he wanted and I gave in. He wasn’t gentle, but I didn’t care. 

He left the flat while I slept. Stayed with his sister for a few days after it. When he came back this morning, we didn’t speak about it, we didn’t speak at all. It wasn’t the comfortable silence. The touches didn’t return with him. 

I miss them.

He is ashamed and confused. I don’t have the words to help him. 

If this is the end, I hope he knows that I learned about the stars for him.   
I still can’t remember the last time we spoke. I should have told him so many things. 

I… I have to stop thinking about this. 

 

I am cold. I am tired. I need to close my eyes for a minute.

 

Sounds wake me. 

I hear the sirens. I don’t know how long it has been. The stars have moved. I try calling out again. It is pathetic, barely a whisper above the shifting of the debris. 

I hear feet. Voices. People.

I can’t do anything to make myself noticed.

I have to continue to wait.

 

 

“Everyone fan out, keep your torches low and watch your footing. If you see anything, report back on the radios. This building is unstable. Keep alert for the signal to clear out.” 

 

“Anything?”

“Nothing yet.”

 

 

There’s light. I wake up to the sound of his voice.

“Oh Jesus. Sherlock, oh Christ. I FOUND HIM!”

There are hands on my face. Fingers are taking my pulse. Light is shone into my eyes. I open them and smile.

John is here. He has one of those high-vis vests on and a hard hat. I can’t find the energy to speak. But I can smile. I give him a grin.

“Sherlock, we will have you out as soon as we can. I am going to need you to stay with me, alright?”

I try to respond but my transport is failing me. I can blink. I can smile.

He moves some of the rubble away, smoothly as possible, piece by piece. Soon there are other hands moving more pieces. The more they reveal, the more they whisper to each other. 

“Oh God,” someone says.

I am no stranger to blood. I have seen a considerable amount before. I have seen my own before. But this is different. They all stop clearing the debris and watch John. He looks so hollow, so shaken.

I want to tell him that it is okay. That I’m sorry. I want to tell him anything. I think he knows, though. He found me and that was all that I needed. Just him. Just the two of us. As it should be. And I can rest easily with that. Nothing more.

John would probably scold me for this line of thinking. He has no appreciation for my morbid mind, he doesn’t like it when I speak of my death with such a cavalier attitude. But I have always felt that my life is my work, and my work is volatile. Some days a gun may be aimed at my head, other days a building may fall down around me. I have always been fine with my own mortality. John believes I should be immortal. I probably wish that of him too.

My arm is free. Aching, but moveable. I reach for him.

He holds his hand to mine.

He’s saying something now, but I’m not able to understand. Listening to him talk is enough, I grin, my eyes stinging with tears. I blink heavily.

I don’t know anything after that.

 

 

I don’t know where I am.

I feel far away, but there are fingers touching mine. a gentle, careful touch. They are keeping me here.

Then I am gone again.

But with his help, I will be back.


End file.
